


although it's been said many times, many ways

by hudders-and-hiddles (huddersandhiddles)



Series: Tumbling Hudders [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 25 Days of Fic-mas, Alcohol, Blow Jobs, Christmas, Christmas Cards, Christmas Lists, Christmas Presents, Dancing, Dirty Talk, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Ficlet Collection, First Kiss, Home Movies, Hot Chocolate, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Light Angst, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Parentlock, Past Abuse, Pining, Post-Reichenbach, Sex Games, Shopping, Snow, Texting, Ugly Holiday Sweaters, a charlie brown christmas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-04 10:08:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 19,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5330228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/huddersandhiddles/pseuds/hudders-and-hiddles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An open series of Johnlock Christmas ficlets</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 1 - Shopping for Gifts

**Author's Note:**

> These ficlets are based on the [25 Days of Fic-mas prompts](http://hudders-and-hiddles.tumblr.com/post/134308673979/25-days-of-fic-mas) that I posted on tumblr. The plan is for there to be one ficlet a day for twenty-five days, all the way up through Christmas day. Each chapter is a separate ficlet, not necessarily connected to any of the others in this collection.
> 
> New tags will be added as new ficlets are posted.
> 
> This has not been beta'ed or Britpicked.

“Why?”

“We’ve been over this, Sherlock,” John says, throwing his hands in the air in exasperation and piercing Sherlock with a look. “If we’re going to your parents’ house for Christmas, we’re bringing them gifts.”

“I’ve never brought them Christmas gifts before. Why would I start now?”

“Never brought…” John sighs heavily and pinches the bridge of his nose as he tries to will away the headache threatening to start throbbing behind his eyes. He looks back at Sherlock and shakes his head. “How you’re the favorite son, I’ll never know.”

“You’ve met Mycroft.”

“Fair point,” he concedes.

He grabs his laptop and takes a seat on the edge of Sherlock’s hospital bed, careful not to jostle him too much. “Alright, look, it’s your family, so you can do whatever you want, but I’m not showing up empty-handed. So do me a favor and help me pick something out, yeah?” He looks up just in time to catch Sherlock’s fond eyeroll.

“If I must.”

John browses through a few websites for ideas. Having only seen Sherlock’s parents as he ushered them out the door at Baker Street once, he has no idea at all what he’s looking for. He comes across a deep plum cashmere scarf that he thinks might actually look rather nice on Sherlock, the rich, dark purple contrasting nicely with his fair skin, the fabric soft and warm against his long, smooth neck. It reminds him of that purple shirt Sherlock used to have, always a favorite of John’s, the sleeves rolled up to expose several inches of alabaster arms, the collar undone as always to show off that tempting hint of sharp collarbones, the buttons straining across a taut, lean chest.

John flushes as he realizes where his thoughts have carried him. That’s not the kind of thing he should be thinking about right now. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he bookmarks the link and moves on, returning to his search for something suitable for Sherlock’s parents. Browsing pages of gift suggestions, he finds little that he thinks would be appropriate–Mr and Mrs Holmes undoubtedly do not need a clock that barks the current time like a dog or a glass paperweight in the shape of a boot or a set of mugs with moustaches on them. There is, however, a book about piracy during the rise of the British Empire that might make another good gift for Sherlock. Oh, and he should really look for that book on historical beekeeping methods that he saw online back at the start of summer. And there had been that set of antique microscope slides he had caught Sherlock eyeing when they were investigating that secondhand shop just last month. John wonders if they’re still there and tries to recall if he had seen a price on them.

“John?”

He looks up to find Sherlock watching him with a hint of a smile on his lips. “I thought you were trying to find gifts for my parents.”

“How do you always… Nevermind,” he says. Sherlock’s ability to know what he’s thinking really shouldn’t surprise him after all this time. He bookmarks the page for the pirate book and quickly closes the tab.

“Do you want to, I don’t know, give me a hint here or something?” John asks. “Any sort of indication of what they like?”

Sherlock looks thoughtful for a moment, but when he looks at John again, he doesn’t offer any suggestions. Instead he says, “Come here,” and scoots himself over to the far edge of the mattress, raising the bed so that he’s sitting rather than lying down. The slight grimace on his face as he moves makes John’s chest tighten–that Sherlock is still in pain, that he still has to be so careful is a constant reminder of the situation that brought them to this, a situation John blames himself for putting them in. He’s the one who married her after all. He should’ve known somehow. He should’ve seen. And then she had nearly taken Sherlock from him, even though she knew what that had done to him the first time around. It’s unforgivable. And the fact that he is going to have to go to her on Christmas day and sham forgiveness, even if it is for his protection and Sherlock’s, only makes it harder. The last thing he wants is to go back to her. He wants to be here with Sherlock. Well, not here. Back in the cozy warmth of Baker Street would be far preferable to this stark and sterile hospital room, perhaps tucked into Sherlock’s bed, huddled together under the duvet to protect against the cold, naked skin on naked skin as John curls up behind him and presses feather-light kisses to the back of his neck, the tops of his shoulders, the gentle curve of his spine.

“John,” Sherlock says, drawing him from his thoughts again.

“Right. Sorry.” John brushes away the fantasy and slides up the bed to settle next to Sherlock, leaning back against the raised mattress and pulling his laptop to where they both can see it. Sherlock takes over the search, and John lets him, content to listen to his running commentary on the ridiculousness of the gift ideas offered on these websites. He watches Sherlock’s face as he talks, so familiar, so beautiful, so full of life, and tries not to focus on how close he had come to losing him yet again. Everything he has ever wanted is right here, and John thinks that perhaps he could have it if he could just find the courage to ask.

“…can hardly believe that anyone would buy th-” Sherlock stops mid-sentence as he catches sight of John watching him, his hands freezing in the middle of some wild gesture. John wants to look away, embarrassed at being caught out, but he forces himself not to, to hold Sherlock’s gaze instead. He isn’t sure what his face looks like just now, but whatever expression is there, a faint flush creeps onto Sherlock’s cheeks in response. He smiles at John softly, the corners of his lips turning up just a little, his eyes warm and full of quiet affection, and his hands drop, one of them coming to rest lightly on John’s thigh.

I could kiss him, John realizes. I could kiss him right now, and he would let me. He would kiss me back. And it’s tempting, so very tempting, but he can’t do it like this, with them sitting side by side in the hospital bed John’s own wife put him in, with the shadow of all their mistakes still looming over them. But there will be time. Later, there will be time for this, time for them. For now they have to focus on getting through this Christmas and the unknown mess to come. But next Christmas, he promises himself, next Christmas they’ll do this proper. They’ll go to Sherlock’s parents’ house to actually share the holidays with them, not as part of a scheme to ensnare John’s wife. They’ll buy gifts for their families and friends together. They’ll decorate the home they share, hanging lights about the flat and trimming the tree. They’ll throw a party and not care who sees them kissing under the mistletoe. Maybe they’ll send out a Christmas card together; or maybe not–John can’t picture Sherlock getting on board with that one actually. Next Christmas, he thinks. By next Christmas we’ll be together.

He smiles widely at Sherlock and turns back to the laptop, feeling more hopeful than he has in weeks, months even. He lets his hand cover Sherlock’s where it rests on his leg and gives it a quick squeeze before reaching for the laptop again. “That’s your parents sorted, yeah? Now help me find something ridiculous to give to Mycroft.”


	2. Day 2 - Hot Cocoa

It’s been a long fucking day. John clomps up the stairs into 221B, throws his coat and scarf onto the sofa, and heads for the kitchen, wanting nothing more than a peaceful evening at home with a relaxing cuppa--or a cold beer--a good book, and maybe a bit of a snog. Instead he comes face to face with a sink full of dirty dishes, something brown spattered all over the hob, the refrigerator door sitting wide open letting out all the cold air, and Sherlock nowhere in sight. He closes his eyes and hopes that when he opens them again, somehow he’ll miraculously live in a flat that isn’t a mess, but of course the world doesn’t work that way. His jaw tightens as he stares at the chaos around him. Fuck it, he decides. Sherlock made the mess--he can clean it up himself when he gets back from wherever he’s run off to in such a hurry.

After closing the refrigerator, he reaches into the cabinet for a mug, only to come up empty. The entire shelf is bare actually. He looks around, and sure enough, there in the pile of dishes in the sink is each and every mug that they own, every single one caked in something thick and wet and brown. Gritting his teeth and trying to convince himself not to actually murder Sherlock whenever he returns from wherever it is he’s gotten off to, John sets about shoving all of the dishes into one side of the sink so that he can fill the other with soapy water.

He’s elbow-deep in warm suds and the pile has been reduced to just a few remaining pots and pans by the time he finally hears Sherlock’s feet on the stairs, in the sitting room, coming to a stop in the kitchen doorway. Leave it to the git to manage to miss most of the work to be done.

“John,” he says, surprised. “I thought you were supposed to be having dinner with Harry.”

“I was,” John says tightly, not looking Sherlock’s way as he tackles a stubborn spot of something that has burned onto the pan he’s holding. He can hear Sherlock setting shopping bags on the table behind him, his unasked question floating in the tense silence between them. “I had a terrible day and just wanted to come home and relax.” His jaw works in tight circles as he tries to keep himself from going from frustration to actual anger. It shouldn’t be so much to ask for him to be able to at least come home to a flat in a liveable state, to not be forced to do the washing up before he can even think about sitting down, to just be able to relax when he bloody well wants to.

Sherlock must be able to see his tension because he starts to ramble out a string of apologies. “I’m sorry, John. I thought you wouldn’t be home until later. I wouldn’t have left it all like this if I had known you were coming back earlier. I didn’t mean for you to come home to any of this anyway. I was going to clean it all up before you got here, I swear I was.”  He always does this at the merest suggestion that John might be angry at him, apologizes for anything and everything that he thinks he’s somehow done wrong. John has learned to see it for what it is--insecurity, a plea for this not to be the thing that finally makes John leave him--and it breaks his heart every time. It’s not a cure-all; it doesn’t automatically stop John from being upset, but it does leach some of the ire from his veins.

“Sherlock,” he says, finally turning to catch his eye. “Come over here.”

Sherlock drops his gaze to the ground and straightens his suit jacket before crossing to lean against the counter next to the sink with feigned nonchalance. “Grab a towel, and start drying,” John says, nodding toward the pile of clean dishes. Sherlock does as he asks, drying the dishes in stiff silence and stacking them neatly to the side.

John lets the quiet fill him for a while, letting it eat away at the remnants of his irritation. When the last pot is clean, he drains the sink, rinses his hands, and grabs a second towel to help Sherlock with the drying. “So what were you doing with all these dishes anyway, hmm?”

Next to him, Sherlock blushes. “An experiment in viscosity and the aromatic principles of a series of minorly-varied chemical compounds in order to determine the optimal composition.”

John picks through the jargon to get at the underlying principles of the statement. Wait, was he...

Turning to rest his hip against the counter, John absently dries a bowl as he considers the brown splotches still on the hob, the state in which he had found their dishes, and the bags Sherlock had set on the table when he came in. He looks up at Sherlock and tries to hold back a smile but doesn’t succeed, his face splitting into a wide grin. “Sherlock, is that your roundabout way of saying you were making hot cocoa?”

Sherlock rounds on him, indignant. “I wasn’t....” John cuts him off with a look, lifting his eyebrows in clear disbelief, and the flush in Sherlock’s cheeks deepens. His head drops so that he’s staring at the floor. “I-I was… I was trying to find the perfect hot cocoa recipe.” He swallows thickly, and his voice is even quieter when he continues. “I wanted to make it for you.”

John lifts a finger to Sherlock’s chin and raises it until their eyes meet again, pressing up until their mouths meet in a soft kiss. “You’re adorable,” he whispers against Sherlock’s lips and kisses him again before he can deny it.

When they part, Sherlock is looking at him warily, as if this is some kind of trap. “You’re not mad at me anymore?”

John sighs. “I wasn’t mad at you before. Frustrated, but not mad. You have to stop thinking the worst, ok?” He drops his towel in the sink and takes Sherlock’s face in his still-damp hands. “Even if I was mad, that doesn’t mean I’m going to leave.” Sherlock opens his mouth to protest, but John is quicker. “No. When will you get it through your head, Sherlock? I’m not going to leave you for something like this. I’m not going to leave you ever,” he says, realizing in that moment just how much he truly means it. He’s finally where he’s meant to be, where he’s always wanted to be. There is nothing that would make him turn away from this now. He just needs Sherlock to understand that, too.

“Look, I know we’ve only been together for a few months,” John says with a small smile, “and so maybe it’s too soon to say this, but as far as I’m concerned, this thing between us, this is for life. Forever.” He looks questioningly into Sherlock’s eyes. “If that’s what you want, too, of course.”

Sherlock’s lips twist into a slow, shy smile before he bends and kisses John, long and deep, his hands sliding around John’s back and pulling him close, kissing him until they both forget to breathe and get a bit dizzy. John pulls back and between labored breaths says, “Let’s put these dishes away and then go out to dinner.”

Sherlock nods in agreement and slides a neat stack of plates back into the cabinet. They move around each other comfortably, putting each dish back in its proper place, and when they’re done, they wrap themselves in coats and scarves and head down the stairs.

Sherlock comes to an abrupt stop on the landing, his face suddenly uncertain. “John, did… um… did we just get engaged?”

The question catches John off guard. He hadn’t necessarily intended his words as a proposal; if he were to propose to Sherlock, he would do it properly--down on one knee, some romantic setting, not in their own kitchen, still messy after Sherlock’s recipe experiments gone wrong. But he has to admit that regardless of intent, what he had said amounted to the same thing, he and Sherlock, together for the rest of their lives. Marriage would certainly be part of that sooner or later. Sooner it is then. A tentative, crooked grin slides onto John’s face. “Yeah, I guess we kinda did. Is that okay?”

Sherlock’s eyes flicker side to side as he loses himself in his thoughts for a moment. Finally, he blinks hard and comes back to himself. “It’s brilliant.” John’s smile grows impossibly wide, and he grabs Sherlock’s lapels and pulls him in for a wet kiss. When they part again, he continues down the stairs, but Sherlock’s voice stops him again. “John.”

“Yeah?” he asks, turning back to where Sherlock still stands on the landing.

“Can we make hot cocoa when we get home?”

Fond laughter bubbles up from John’s chest. “Whatever you want, love.”

And with that they tumble out into the night. The frosty air nips at John’s face, but he can hardly feel it with the warmth of his fiance at his side.


	3. Day 3 - Winter Wonderland

Escape. That’s all he can think about. He has to escape.

John throws on his coat, flees out the back door, pushes through the gate, and sets off through the open field behind the house, aiming for the distant trees on the far side.

It’s beautiful, or at least it would be if John were to notice it. A white Christmas is a rarity in Britain, and this one has left the ground blanketed in white as far as the eye can see and a delicate layer of powdery snow clinging to every twig and branch and long-dried leaf. It softens everything, as if the world has been wrapped in cotton wool, and even the sound of John’s footsteps crunching through the freshly-fallen snow is muffled. Everything is quiet and still, the world holding its breath–except for John. John’s heavy breaths puff warm and moist from his mouth, forming little clouds in the air that he tears through as he marches steadily forward. He should have grabbed a scarf he realizes. and perhaps some gloves, too, but it’s too late now. He pushes onward, wrapping his coat more tightly around himself and shoving his hands into his pockets in an effort to ward off the cold.

It takes everything in him not to all out run. He needs to get as far away from this house as possible, to ease the tension binding his chest so tight he can hardly move. _I never should have come here_ , he thinks. Mr and Mrs Holmes had been kind enough to invite him along again, and John had thought it would be a good way to put last year behind him. Besides, the thought of spending Christmas alone had been unbearable. Sherlock was going to be here, which meant he would have been alone in the flat, so of course John had said yes, he’d come, too. But that had been a mistake. Trapped in the house with the memories of what had happened that day, of the chain of events that had led up to it, of the chain that carried on after it, it was like being there with a ghost, her ghost, haunting him as a reminder of everything that had gone so very wrong in his life. He had thought that perhaps being here would help him to replace those memories with happier ones, and Sherlock’s parents had been so lovely and welcoming and tried so hard to make him feel like one of the family, but he’s not. John isn’t part of any family anymore, not really. He hardly speaks to Harry. His parents are gone. His travesty of a marriage is over. On top of the reminders of last Christmas, the reminders of his loneliness had been too much to bear, and he had to escape.

John reaches the tree line before he realizes he’s being followed, and he speeds up, clomping past tree after tree to try to get away. His chest is heaving and his legs are burning, but at least he doesn’t feel cold anymore. “John,” comes the voice from behind him, but he ignores it. “John, would you stop?”

“No,” he says, though he isn’t sure that Sherlock can even hear it over the sound of their feet in the snow.

“John, just stop. Please.” From the determined note in Sherlock’s voice, John knows Sherlock isn’t going to leave him alone until he catches up. He heaves a weary sigh and stops walking. The footsteps behind him get closer and closer until Sherlock steps around in front of him. “What are you doing?”

“Walking, Sherlock. What’s it look like?”

“Running away,” Sherlock says simply, and John’s jaw tenses, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. Leave it to Sherlock to jump right to the truth of it.

“Why do you do that?” John asks, the words short and sharp in his mouth.

Confusion wrinkles Sherlock’s brow. “Do what?”

“Just blurt out the truth like that. Skip all the niceties and go straight to the heart of things.”

“It’s the more direct way of dealing with the problem, is it not? Surely you’ve known me long enough by now to know that I have no desire to dance around an issue.”

John barks out a humorless laugh. “Has it ever occurred to you that people dance around issues for a reason? That people do it because they don’t want to talk about it? That they don’t want their secrets and problems and innermost thoughts broadcast to the world?” He shakes his head and turns away from Sherlock, pacing in a tight circle to try to blow off some of the steam building up inside him. “No, of course not, because you’re Sherlock bloody Holmes. You see through everything and everyone, so there is no keeping secrets from you, is there? Go on then. Tell me what it is I’m thinking, what I’m running away from.”

John looks at Sherlock and catches a flash of what looks like hurt in his eyes before his walls go up again. “No,” he says and turns away.

_Great. Good job, John. Now you’ve managed to not only storm out on the perfectly nice family that was willing to accept you into their home for the holidays, but you’ve pissed off your only real friend, too. You’re really doing a great job here of making this Christmas better than the last one._

John pulls several cold, crisp breaths of air deep into his lungs, letting them cool the anger burning inside of him, some of his tension easing with each purposeful exhale. “Sherlock,” he says when he feels calmer. “I’m sorry, okay?” Sherlock is still looking resolutely at the ground. John circles around to stand in front of him, maintaining a careful distance between them so that he can fight that ever-present desire to pull him into his arms. “I’m not… I’m not angry at you.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath and raises his head. “I know,” he says, the corner of his lips turned down a bit. “I know it’s not me, and I know you don’t want to talk about it.” He hesitates. “But I think you should. It could help.”

“Now you sound like my therapist,” John chuckles.

Sherlock shrugs. “Your therapist sounds intelligent then.” John can’t help but smile at that, his gaze falling to the responding half-smile that quirks onto Sherlock’s beautiful lips. They’re pink, very pink due to the cold, and they contrast sharply with Sherlock’s pale, winter skin (not that he’s much darker in summer really). There’s a rosy blossom across his cheeks from the exertion of their march across the field and the wind chafing against his sensitive skin. His eyes are nearly silver today, much of the blue-green in them leeched away by bright white snow and overcast, colorless skies. The wind ruffles through his mahogany curls, and John itches to do the same with his fingers.

“It’s fine if you don’t want to talk about it now. I’m not going to force you to talk about what you’re thinking,” Sherlock says. He swallows thickly and opens his mouth and closes it again, his eyes darting to the trees around them to John’s chest to the sky to John’s feet, bouncing around and around as if he’s trying to work up his courage for something. “Let… Let me tell you what I’m thinking though.” John looks at him curiously but nods for him to continue. Sherlock’s eyes finally find his, and he doesn’t look away again. “I think you place far too much blame on yourself.”

That takes John by surprise; whatever he might have expected Sherlock to say, that surely isn’t it. “I think you’re under the impression that you’ve done something to screw up your life, that somehow you are the root cause of everything that has happened to you. And while, yes, some of what happens to us is our own fault, you are not to blame for the large majority of the bad things that have befallen you. You have been surrounded by people who have taken advantage of your trust, myself included, and that is not your fault. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for the role that I have played in making you feel that way.”

Sherlock takes a step closer to him, and John’s heart beats a little faster. It’s not like Sherlock to open up like this, and it’s making John want more than ever to grab hold of him and not let go. “I think that we should have stayed home for Christmas. We could have had a quiet celebration at Baker Street, just the two of us, but I had thought that perhaps it would be good for you to get out, to spend the day with people who could make you feel welcomed, who could wrap you in the kind of holiday spirit I thought you would want. I’m sorry for assuming once again that I knew what was best for you, for not realizing sooner how it would make you feel to come back here.”

Sherlock takes another step toward John, close enough now that John could easily touch him if he wanted, close enough he could pull him in and kiss him. He tries his hardest to keep his eyes from darting to Sherlock’s lips and giving away his desire. “I think, however, that I’m glad we’re here. Not here at this house. Here, amongst the trees and the snow.” He glances around them briefly before turning back to John. “It’s quiet and beautiful and isolated. It feels a little like we could maybe be the only two people left in the world. And that would be more than fine with me.” John’s lips part as he sucks in a sharp breath at Sherlock’s words, and he doesn’t fail to notice the way Sherlock’s eyes flick to his mouth and back as he steps even closer. “And I think… No, I  _know_  that I would very much like to kiss you now.”

John can’t find his voice to respond. After several long seconds, he barely manages to nod. Sherlock bends his head toward him, and John closes his eyes, holding his breath in anticipation. Sherlock’s mouth stops just before they connect, his breath puffing lightly against John’s lips as he hesitates. John knows Sherlock needs to be certain, that he doesn’t want to do this and be wrong, that he can’t take this final step all on his own. So John presses up on his toes and meets him halfway, closing the last of the distance between them to slot their mouths together. Sherlock’s lips are cold and a little dry against his, but when they part and their tongues meet, it’s warm and wet and glorious. John’s hands slide around Sherlock’s waist as Sherlock’s wrap around his back, and they melt into one another.

When they finally part, John rests his forehead against Sherlock’s, breathing deeply and trying to come to terms with this new reality in which he has kissed Sherlock. Just to double-check, he pushes forward and kisses him again, slow and tender, their lips sliding against one another, their tongues barely brushing in teases of something deeper.

They stay there, wrapped up in each other, hidden away in their little snowy wonderland, as the sun sets, hidden behind the thick blanket of clouds. When the cold starts to seep into their limbs and the light begins to fade, John takes Sherlock’s hand in his and guides him back through the trees toward the house.

Maybe there’s still time for them to make some happy memories here after all.


	4. Day 4 - Christmas Cards

In her 24 years of life, Fee has never seen her dad cry. She’s seen her pop cry a fair few times; despite his reputation as a cold, heartless bastard–one he has carefully cultivated–Sherlock can be very emotional when it comes to his family, like the time John had been caught in a minor explosion and ended up in hospital for two weeks, or when she’d won first place in her very first piano competition, or the year when John had surprised him with a cruise on a restored pirate ship for their anniversary, or the day she had come home to show them the ring Chris had put on her finger.

Her dad, on the other hand, she can’t recall having ever seen him cry even once. She and John had sat by Sherlock’s hospital bed when he’d been stabbed (three times), poisoned (just the once), shot (once), and fallen severely ill (twice), all with potentially fatal consequences. John had stayed calmly at Sherlock’s side, clutching his hand in a vice grip, sometimes murmuring words softly into his ear when he thought she was sleeping, but she never saw a single tear fall. Nor had he cried at her wedding–though Sherlock had been a mess of happy tears–or even that time she’d been in that car collision back when she was fourteen. She’d seen him bursting with joy, shaking with anger, beaming with pride, numb with sorrow, but through it all, she’d never once seen him cry.

When she was a girl, she had thought it strange. She’d even gotten up the courage to ask Sherlock about it once, and he had told her that he could count on his fingers the number of times he’d seen John cry in all the time they’d known one another, which had been more than fifteen years at the time (now going on thirty). She’d eventually come to accept that it wasn’t so strange after all, that that is just how her dad is, that his tears are very rare and very private.

 

After all the gifts have been opened, the sitting room a disaster zone of discarded paper and ribbons and boxes, Sherlock already delving into some of the new books he’s just received, Fee looks at Chris, her stomach fluttering with nerves, and he nods at her in encouragement. “Dad, Pop,” she says, and both of their heads snap to her at once. “Um, Chris and I have one more gift for you. It’s for both of you. Together.” She tucks a loose strand of her long dark hair behind her ear, her fingers catching the end and twisting it.

“Oh?” John says, his eyebrows rising in surprise, while Sherlock narrows his eyes at her in suspicion.  _Shit._ She knows that look all too well; she’s seen him use it on loads of clients, on her Uncle Mycroft, on John, and of course on her any time he has suspected her of, well, anything. It had kept her from getting into a lot of typical teenage trouble–after all, who wants to sneak out for a wild night with their friends when they have to come home to a father who can read everywhere they’ve been, everything they’ve done, everyone they’ve been with just from a single look?  _Please don’t let him know. It’s supposed to be a surprise._

“Pop,” she says, trying to distract him from his appraisal, though she knows the attempt is somewhat futile. “Why don’t you, um, come sit over here with Dad so the two of you can open it together?” He reluctantly tears his gaze from her to look at John who grins and pats the seat next to him in invitation, so Sherlock pushes himself from his chair with a small grumble and plops onto the sofa. John’s arm curls around his shoulders, and he places a quick kiss against Sherlock’s temple. In response, Sherlock gives John’s thigh a squeeze, leaving his hand there, his fingers absently tracing lines on the fabric of John’s trousers. It makes Fee smile to see them like this, still so affectionate with one another after all these years together.

“Alright, Sophia, let’s see this present then,” her dad says.

She digs an envelope out of her bag, Chris stepping close and laying a comforting hand on the small of her back as she turns to face her fathers again. With a deep breath, she hands them the envelope, pleased that she manages to keep her hands from shaking. Sherlock’s eyes narrow again, this time at the gift rather than her, but John looks happily puzzled, sliding a finger beneath the flap to peel it open. He pulls a Christmas card from the envelope, and a piece of paper flutters to the floor. Sherlock bends down to pick it up while John examines the smiling snowmen on the front of the card and then opens it.

Sherlock sits up again and flips the paper over at the same moment that John reads the inscription on the card, both of them sucking in sharp breaths and freezing in place. Fee can’t help but smile wider at the matching, adorably stunned looks on their faces. Several seconds pass in silence, Chris rubbing gentle circles against her back, while she waits for them to say something.

John manages to find his voice first. “Fee, is this… “ He clears his throat and tries again. “Is this… Are you…” He finally looks up at her, eyes wide.

“Yeah, Dad,” she says, happy tears starting to prick at the corners of her eyes. “I’m pregnant.” His answering smile is one of the most brilliant things she’s ever seen, lighting up his entire face with joy.

Sherlock’s voice emerges rough with emotion when he finally finds the ability to speak, a few fat tears already starting to roll down his still-sharp cheekbones. “Twins?”

She nods vigorously. “Yep. Twins. Due in July.”

John laughs, tightening his arm around Sherlock’s shoulder to pull him closer. He turns and swipes the tears from Sherlock’s cheeks, giving him a quick peck on the lips, and only then does he notice the black and white image held delicately between Sherlock’s long fingers. “Is that what I think it is?”

Sherlock hands him the sonogram image and brings his hands up to wipe at his face before pushing himself off the sofa, his knees popping as he stands, to wrap Fee in a tight hug, his wiry arms still surprisingly strong, squeezing her until it’s hard to breathe. “I’m so happy for you, sweetheart. You’re going to be a wonderful mother.”

“Thanks, Pop.” She manages to hold it together and not dissolve into a complete mess, but it’s a near thing.

Sherlock steps away to hug Chris, too, and Fee takes a deep, calming breath as she turns back to the sofa. All the calming breaths in the world, however, can’t prepare her to handle the sight before her. John’s face is completely slack with wondrous disbelief, silent tears rolling down his face as he stares transfixed at the very first image of his grandchildren.

It breaks the last of her control, and she flings herself at him. “Oh, Daddy,” she chokes out, her arms snaking around his shoulders, her bum landing on the sofa next to him with her legs thrown across his, nearly curling up in his lap like she did so many times as a little girl. His arms find their way around her, his hands absently patting her back, and she lets him hold her as they cry into each other’s shoulders.

 _It’s like a Christmas miracle_. The thought makes her snicker, which slowly turns into a full laugh. She pulls back and rubs at her eyes, wipes her wet hands down the front of her jeans.

“What’s so funny?” John asks, swiping away his own tears.

“Not funny really. I’m just so happy,” she says, clambering off his lap. “And surprised.”

“ _You’re_  surprised?” John says with the incredulous tone of a man who has just received the biggest surprise of his life.

She offers a hand, and he takes it so that she can help pull him to standing. “You know that’s the first time I’ve ever in my life seen you cry?”

John looks briefly embarrassed, his cheeks flushing a little, before he chuckles and gives her a little shrug. “If a man can’t cry when he finds out he’s going to be a grandfather, then I don’t know when he can.” He pulls her in for another hug, kissing the side of her head, before looking past her at Sherlock. “Get over here, you,” he says, lifting an arm in invitation. Sherlock presses against the other side of her, the three of them sharing a family hug.

“You, too,” Sherlock says suddenly, and then there’s a third body pressed against her back as he drags Chris over to join them. She can feel the rumbles of their laughter where their chests shake against her, her own laughter bubbling up her throat.

Standing here, surrounded by the three men she loves most in the world (and maybe two more on the way), Fee thinks she’s never had a happier Christmas.


	5. Day 5 - Ghost of Christmas Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ficlet includes mentions of both alcoholism and past abuse (not of John or Sherlock directly). It's pretty limited in detail, but if that is something you do not wish to read, by all means skip this one.

“...because the killer loved her and couldn’t stand the thought of seeing her with someone else. It’s the Ghost of Christmas Past--the actor. Go and arrest him, and you’ll have your murderer,” Sherlock concludes, irritated that he had been dragged from the warm cocoon of the sofa for such an obvious case. It had taken less than three minutes to put it all together--less time than it had taken for him to change out of his pyjamas before leaving the flat. A waste of time. Lestrade frowns as his inferior brain attempts to process all the information that has just been thrown at it, but Sherlock is past ready to leave and has no intention of sticking around to answer further inane questions. “John!” he calls, turning to find his partner standing right next to him. “Come. We’re done here.” And with that he spins on his heel and flees the stage, his coat flaring out in his wake, his lips quirking in quiet humor at how apt the dramatics of such an exit are for a case in a theatre.

 

The warm weight of John tucked against his side, head on his chest, arm curled on his belly, fingers making absent little swirls against the skin over his ribs, is something Sherlock thinks he might never get used to. The two of them pressed together like this has become a constant in his life over the past seven months, but something about it still feels surprising, perhaps because he had so long thought that they’d never have this. Usually John’s weight on him is a comfort--that John is here in their bed of his own free will, lying on Sherlock because that’s where he chooses to be, tired and satisfied after having tumbled willing and open into Sherlock’s arms, reiterating over and over again with his words, with his lips, with his body that this is what he wants and where he wants to be--but tonight John has been quiet in a way Sherlock finds unsettling. They had made love with their usual fervor, but on the cab ride home before and now in the afterglow, John has been still and introspective in a way that suits Sherlock much better than it suits John.

Sherlock replays the events at the theatre, trying to find if there was some point at which he had upset John. Had he said something rude and not realized it? Dismissed John’s opinions? Called him an idiot a bit less fondly than normal? He can’t recall doing anything of the sort, but he must have done something to put John in such a mood.

“Stop,” comes John’s voice muffled against his chest, followed by a heavy sigh. Sherlock mentally traces the breath as it gusts across his skin, feeling his nerves alight at the brief change of temperature and air pressure, down his ribs, across his abdominal muscles, past his belly button, to scatter apart amongst the thick hair curled between his legs. “It’s not you.”

The words catch him by surprise. Isn’t he the one who is supposed to be able to tell what John is thinking and not the other way around? “What gave me away?” he asks, genuinely curious.

“Your chest gets tighter, the muscles going tense, and your breathing gets shallower and quicker,” John mumbles, his voice low and flat. “It’s what you do when you start to panic, which you only ever do when I’m somehow involved. Considering my current state and that I’ve been like this since we left the theater, I know you think you did something there to upset me. You didn’t. It’s not you.”

Sherlock is torn between being concerned that he’s so easy to read, impressed by John’s deduction, worried still by John’s mood, and unsure what he’s supposed to do if he isn’t the one to blame. But he has to say... something.

“And here I thought _I_ was the detective,” he tries, hoping to lighten the mood a little.

John laughs, but it’s little more than a single puff of breath from his nose. “You are,” he replies and lapses back into silence.

The silence expands between them until it feels as if all the air has been sucked from the room. It isn’t the comfortable quiet of two people content to just share the same space; it’s the quiet of two people each trapped in their own heads, and it isn’t doing either of them any good. He tightens the arm curled around John’s back, pressing him more closely to Sherlock’s side and brings his other hand up to rest along John’s jaw, fingertips stroking absently at the smooth patch of skin just in front of his ear. “I love you,” he says because he isn’t sure what else to say, but he needs to say something.

He can feel John sigh again, his chest pushing against Sherlock’s ribs before the exhale. “I know.”

That’s unlike him, and Sherlock can feel the panic creeping in again, gnawing on the edges of his comfort so that doubt can sneak in through all the little holes. John always tells Sherlock he loves him, too. Always. “John?” he asks tentatively, lifting his head from the pillow to look down at John, the dim light of the bedside lamp glinting gold in his hair. John’s hand stops tracing circles and splays across his ribs instead, tugging lightly in a small approximation of a hug. It isn’t entirely reassuring, but it loosens the knot in Sherlock’s stomach just enough that he can stand to wait a little longer before trying again. His head falls back to the pillow as he holds his breath and tries to keep the panic at bay for just a few more minutes.

“When I was thirteen,” John says suddenly, his voice so quiet as to nearly be lost in the ambient sound of the room, “I had the worst Christmas of my entire life.” Sherlock wants to encourage him to go on, but he doesn’t dare speak. Instead he cups John’s face more firmly, almost squeezing his cheek, and then lets his hand drift down to John’s shoulder, rubbing relaxing lines up and down his skin.

“It started out fine. We had a family breakfast and then sat down to open presents together. Dad had spent Christmas Eve down at the pub with some of his friends, and he still reeked from all the pints he’d drank, but that wasn’t unusual. Mum kept throwing him concerned glances but didn’t say anything. Harry and I were too worried about what gifts we’d gotten to pay much mind.” John lapses into silence again, and Sherlock continues to stroke his shoulder and wait. He isn’t certain where this is going but is sure that he’s not going to like it.

“Harry got a new pair of shoes that she had really wanted and said she was going to wear them for her date over the weekend. In her excitement, she accidentally let slip that her date was with Julie Nevins. Dad exploded. Said that she was going to hell, called her all kinds of terrible names, told her in no uncertain terms that no daughter of his would be dating a girl, and threatened to kick her out of the house if she didn’t get her head on straight. She locked herself in her room and didn’t come out again until he’d gone back to work the next day.”

Sherlock had suspected something of that nature must have occurred somewhere in John’s formative years; he’d always been so vocal about denying that he was gay, and Sherlock knew there had to be a reason for that. This, it seems, is it. However, John’s silence is still heavy in a way that means there’s more to the story, so he stays quiet and lets John find whatever else it is that he needs to say.

“He was so angry,” he says eventually. “Mum didn’t try to talk to him much. We all knew how impossible he could be when he was like that. But when he started threatening to kick down Harry’s bedroom door, she finally stepped in to stop him. And he responded by backhanding her across the face.”

Sherlock wraps both arms as far around John as he can manage, his chest growing tighter at the thought of John having to witness such a thing. “I just sat there, frozen, surrounded by Christmas paper and new clothes and books and games, the lights on the tree flashing red and green and blue, as he took his anger out on her since she wouldn’t let him take it out on Harry.”

When Sherlock feels the first wet drop against his chest, his hand comes to John’s face to swipe away the tears with his thumb. The tightness in his chest grows, and there isn’t enough room for his lungs anymore. He struggles to keep breathing evenly in and out under the weight of John, the weight of his story, the weight of all these emotions roiling in Sherlock’s stomach. “I should’ve done… something,” he says, his voice muffled by Sherlock’s hand across his cheek, and Sherlock shakes his head. “I don’t know what, but something. But I didn’t. I just sat there.”

“No,” Sherlock manages to croak out. “You were just a kid. He only would have done the same to you. It’s not your fault.”

He can feel John’s deep breaths puffing against his wrist, warm and wet like the tears still slipping from the corners of his eyes. “Maybe,” he concedes. “But I should’ve had the courage to do more.”

This is it, Sherlock realizes. This one story captures so much of who John has become. It’s shaped his life into everything it is today. The army, medical school, his sexuality struggles, his total calm in the face of danger, his protective streak, his efforts to ensure that everyone he cares about has a happy Christmas. This one single moment crystallized the course of John’s future.

“He loved her,” John says quietly, breaking through Sherlock’s thoughts. “I remember the way he would look at her when I was little, like she was the sun. He had loved her so much once, and then somehow years later he was hitting her on Christmas morning.”

“You are not your father, John,” Sherlock says, suddenly making sense of this entire afternoon. John doesn’t say anything in response, and Sherlock knows he’s hit on the heart of the matter. “Your entire life has been a rebellion against that, against him. You went to medical school because you wanted to heal rather than hurt. You went into the army because you wanted to be brave enough to fight back when the need arose. You hid your bisexuality from the world out of self-preservation, but you still weren’t afraid to embrace relationships when the chance arose, regardless of the gender of your partner.” He presses John’s head fiercely to his chest. “They may have loved each other once, just as we love each other now, but you will never ever become what he became. That won’t happen to us.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because you’re a good man,” Sherlock says simply, because it’s a fact. Day turns to night. The shortest distance between two points is a straight line. John Watson is a good man--the best Sherlock has ever known. Facts.

John nuzzles a little against his chest, and when the quiet settles again, it isn’t quite so expansive. It folds in on itself and gives them both a little more room to breathe. When Sherlock swipes his thumb across John’s cheek and it finally comes away dry, he asks, “What brought all this on?”

“The Ghost of Christmas Past,” John says after a few seconds.

“John, you are far from Ebeneezer Scrooge.”

John’s chuckles feel like fizzy bubbles in his chest, rising to the surface with little joyous pops. “You actually remember Dickens?”

“What kind of Englishman would I be if I deleted Dickens?” Sherlock smiles, and John shifts to prop his chin on Sherlock’s chest, looking up at him with an answering smile. His eyes are still a little red around the edges, but he looks mostly himself. Sherlock cards his fingers through John’s hair, pushing it into small spikes and then flattening it again, letting the warmth of this moment chase away the lingering chill of distant memories. John’s eyes flutter closed as he settles into the touch, and when he opens them again, his face is serious once more.

“I love you,” he says. “I love you so much. But I just worry sometimes. I guess my thoughts kind of run away with me.”

“Well stop,” Sherlock tells him, as if it were just that easy, and John’s brows furrow a little. “This isn’t A Christmas Carol. Yes, our past will always be there shaping who we are, even without a ghost to remind us of it. But there is no Ghost of Christmas Future. There is no way to know what the future might have in store for us, and the entire point of that story is that the future is changeable, that it isn’t set in stone. It’s what we make of it each and every day. The present is all that matters, so we take advantage of it, and whatever will be will be.” He slides his hand down to cup John’s cheek again, brushing his thumb gently across John’s lips. “And at present, I am in bed, naked, with a gorgeous, wonderful man whom I love dearly and haven’t kissed in at least fifteen minutes, and that is a damn shame.”

John’s mouth breaks into a wide grin, and he presses a smiling kiss to Sherlock’s thumb. “Mmm,” he says, sliding up the bed until he’s close enough for them to reach one another properly. “I guess you better _take advantage_ of the present then,” he says, full of mischievous intent, and Sherlock bends to taste the smile on his lips, sliding their tongues together and kissing John until they're both thoroughly breathless.

“Oh, I intend to.”


	6. Day 6 - Naughty and Nice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: here be smut

“Naughty or nice?” John asks as he presses forward and back again in one smooth motion, but Sherlock only manages a few incoherent syllables in response. He stills his movements and asks again. “Naughty or nice, Sherlock?”

He can’t quite remember exactly how they ended up like this. It had started when Sherlock made a comment about being able to deduce who belonged on which list better than a mythological man in a red suit and somehow ended here, with Sherlock’s hands pressed against the glass of the sitting room windows, John fucking him steadily from behind, as he deduces the truth about the people rushing past on the pavement below.

“N-nice,” Sherlock responds.

“Good.” John rubs his palms up Sherlock’s back, across his shoulders, down his chest, his ribs, his belly, his hips. “And how do you know?”

“She’s, uh, on her way to… to…” Bending over to press his mouth to Sherlock’s back, John trails his tongue along the ridges of Sherlock’s spine, distracting him from his deduction.

“To?” he asks, letting his breath blow against Sherlock’s overheated skin, before kissing and licking and sucking at him once more, the heady taste of sweat and sex and Sherlock on his tongue.

He can practically feel Sherlock thinking, trying to chase down the trail of his deduction. “To the, the toy store…” John’s fingers splay around Sherlock’s sharp hipbones, as he mouths a sound of encouragement between Sherlock’s shoulder blades and rocks his hips just a fraction of an inch forward, teasing. “To get a… a gift for her, um, her niece… no, nephew,” Sherlock finishes between breaths grown heavier in anticipation. John makes a pleased sound and pulls Sherlock’s hips back hard as his own snap forward, his cock sliding all the way in again. It’s good that he has his hands on Sherlock’s hips because he can feel Sherlock’s knees nearly buckle with relief. He pumps quickly into the tight heat of Sherlock’s body, the sound of his hips slapping against Sherlock’s arse loud and obscene in the quiet of the sitting room, the twitch of his muscles pulling John deeper with each slick stroke.

When he slows once more, Sherlock whimpers, and John rubs soothing strokes up and down his back and stomach again. He bends low over Sherlock and says, “Another.” People continue to pass by on the pavement below, and John picks one out. “The man in the green coat.” Standing again, he lets his fingers trace along the curve of Sherlock’s spine, out over his hips, down the outside of his thighs, as he begins to rock, in and out in a torturous, slow slide that keeps Sherlock well-distracted from his task. “Naughty or nice?”

“Nnnnaughty,” Sherlock breathes, and John speeds up, just a little, in encouragement. “Just had a… ahhhh… a row… with…” The deduction trails off, and John slows once more. “Fuck,” Sherlock pants, gulping down a shaky breath. “With his b-brother. Oh Jo- please, fuck me. Fuck me.”

“Yes.” John rewards him with a roll of his hips that brushes his cock against Sherlock’s prostate, and Sherlock’s hands slip down the glass a little as he moans wantonly. John does it again and again, relishing the delicious sounds that tumble from Sherlock’s lips, the feel of his taut frame quivering with need, the pink flush forming as the heat builds below his skin. “That was good. You’re doing so well.”

He can just barely see their reflection in the window, the sight of himself as he fucks Sherlock adding quickly to his building pleasure, and he knows he isn’t going to last much longer. Sliding a hand up Sherlock’s neck and into his hair, John grabs a fistful and tugs just enough to pull Sherlock’s head up from where it hangs between his shoulders so that John can see his face in the reflection, his eyes squeezed tightly closed, mouth open as he breathes heavily, lower lip swollen from where he’s been biting it, brow wrinkling each time John’s cock hits just the right spot.

“John,” he groans, and as ever, the sound of his name so rough and desperate from Sherlock’s mouth sends a bolt of electric heat through him, coiling tight at the base of his spine. “I… I need…” Sherlock chokes out, bracing himself more firmly on his left hand and dropping his right to reach for his own cock, but John catches his wrist before he gets there, pulling his hand up to brush a kiss against Sherlock’s knuckles. He threads their fingers together and brings their joined hands back down to clutch at Sherlock’s hip.

“I know you can come like this, love.” John can feel the tension in Sherlock’s body, the way the muscles clench around him, and he knows Sherlock is close, that he can tip him over the edge without touching him. He pumps harder and faster, in an even, pounding rhythm, using both their tangled hands on Sherlock’s hip and the one in his hair to pull him back to meet each thrust.

Sherlock shakes his head frantically, the motion limited by the firm grip John has on his curls. “I-I can’t. I ca-” He breaks off with a needy whine.

“You can,” John reassures him, the pleasure growing tight tight tight in his own belly. “Sherlock Holmes,” he says, trying to distract himself just long enough to finish Sherlock this way. “Naughty or nice?”

“Nnn-” Sherlock tries, his head twisting beneath John’s grasp, his body jerking back to meet every stroke, his back arching as the muscles writhe and twitch and tense. “Please. Jo-John, please.”

“Naughty or nice?” John growls, and the effect is instantaneous, Sherlock’s entire body going rigid, a single loud _ohhhhh_ rumbling through his chest as he comes. His arse clenches rhythmically around John’s cock, and it pulls John over the edge, too. With one final roll of his hips, he buries himself deep, holding Sherlock as tight against him as he can, and pulses thick and warm into Sherlock’s body, before collapsing against his back and scattering a steady stream of soft words against his skin.

When Sherlock’s knees begin to shake, John pulls out carefully and lowers them both to the floor, barely managing to keep them from just toppling into a messy, sated heap. He pulls Sherlock close against him, holding him tight and stroking his fingers soothingly over flushed skin, as their pounding hearts and heaving chests slow together.

Eventually Sherlock blows out a long breath and turns to face him. “John Watson. Naughty. Definitely,” he says with a satisfied smirk, and John chuckles, sweeping back the sweat-soaked hair plastered to Sherlock’s forehead.

“Give me half an hour, and I’ll see what I can do to end up on the nice list.”


	7. Day 7 - The Nutcracker

Soft footsteps on the stairs alert John to Mrs Hudson’s imminent arrival just as he settles down in his chair with a fresh cup of tea and his laptop, ready to unwind after a long day fighting the crowds to finish some last minute Christmas shopping.

“Yoohoo,” she calls as she reaches the landing. “You boys decent?” (She’s taken to asking nearly every time she enters the flat, not without good reason.)

“Yes, Mrs Hudson,” John says with a fond chuckle. “It’s just me here. Sherlock’s down at Barts bothering Molly.”

“I hope she doesn’t give him any more ears to bring home this time.” She sets a small box on the coffee table and begins gathering the few dishes that have collected there and carrying them to the sink.

“You and me both.”

“A parcel arrived while you were out,” she says, coming back into the sitting room. “Just wanted to drop it by.” She grabs the box she set down moments ago and hands it to John. It’s from Sherlock’s parents and addressed to him--just him. What could they possibly be sending to him? A Christmas gift? But then why wouldn’t they have addressed it to the both of them? Surely they would send their own son a Christmas gift, too.

“I’m going to make mince pies tonight. I’ll bring some up to you boys later,” Mrs Hudson says, interrupting his thoughts and giving him a pat on his shoulder before she heads for the door.

“That’d be lovely, thanks,” John says, distracted, his attention still focused on the parcel in his hands. Only one way to find out what it is. He opens the box to find a folded note tucked inside along with a thumb drive. Definitely not what he was expecting. The note, written in Mrs Holmes’ looping hand, simply says,  _John, we thought you might like to have a copy of this. - MH_

His curiosity piqued, he plugs the thumb drive into his computer to find that it contains several video files. He opens the first, and his eyes go wide as an image fills the screen of a dark-haired little boy, only six or seven years old, with hair just long enough to give the hint of curls, his nose buried in a book. He’s lying on his stomach on a cushy sofa, propped up on his elbows, knees bent, feet kicking absently through the air. When he looks up with keen, bright eyes to find that he’s being filmed, he rolls his eyes in annoyance and goes back to his book. It’s an expression so familiar that John has to laugh. After a few more seconds, the video ends, and John plays it again, marveling at the sight of Sherlock as a child.

He clicks to open the next video file to find an even younger Sherlock running around what John recognizes as the back garden of the Holmeses’ house, waving a stick in the air as he chases an Irish setter around and around in wide circles. His white shirt is unbuttoned so that it billows and flutters around his small frame as he runs, his bare feet kicking up grass, the pirate hat on his head bouncing so much he has to hold it down. “Fifteen men on the dead man's chest,” his little voice cries out in a sing-song rhythm. “Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum! Drink and the devil had done for the rest--yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!” When he finally catches up with the dog, he pulls it into a great big hug and dissolves into raucous giggles as it starts to lick at his face.

The sound is so sweet and pure and joyous that John’s eyes begin to fill, his lungs straining against his too-tight chest as he tries to hold himself together. This Sherlock is so vastly different from the man he’s become, and it saddens John that he’s not this innocent and free and happy anymore. There are moments where John can still see this little boy underneath the layers and layers of armor Sherlock wears--those moments happen more and more lately, now that the two of them are together--but it’s still buried deep under years and years of being told that he should suppress his feelings, under countless people calling him a freak or worse, under emotional scars that have never fully healed.

John takes another deep breath, trying to keep the tears at bay a little longer, and starts the next video. This one shows an older Sherlock, maybe twelve or so. He’s taller and whip-thin, his hair grown into a more familiar unruly mop atop his head, the prominence of his cheekbones beginning to emerge from beneath the cloak of baby fat that his face hasn’t quite lost yet, a violin and bow at his sides clutched in spindly fingers. This boy is pronouncedly different from the one in the first two videos. The way he carries himself and the expression on his face are both undeniably Sherlock, the shadows having already encroached to make him somewhat cooler, stiffer, more distant. It breaks John’s heart that even at that age he was already beginning to close himself off from the world.

And then he lifts the violin, tucks it under his chin, and starts to play. His body sways along with the music, the sweep of his arm calculated and exact but still supple and graceful, his hardened face relaxing to let the layers fall away and reveal the child still hiding beneath. The song he plays doesn’t sound as complex as many of the pieces Sherlock plays now, but it’s still, as far as John can tell, played with great technical precision; there aren’t any of the missed notes or accidental screeches you might expect from a child’s playing. Sherlock seems as proficient then as he is now, and John wonders if he has ever been less than perfect at something he set his mind to accomplish. The song itself is sweet and buoyant and unlike what Sherlock typically plays now--it’s cheerful. So much of what Sherlock has played in the time John has known him has been full of longing or sadness, and he can’t think if he’s ever actually heard Sherlock play something that he would describe as happy. Another pang of sadness sweeps through him, and this time he can’t quite hold in the emotion, a couple of tears escaping to trace along his cheeks before he can wipe them roughly away.

There are more videos--Sherlock as a toddler walking around on unsteady legs while holding his father’s hand, Sherlock in his early teens doing some kind of chemistry experiment in the Holmeses’ kitchen, newborn Sherlock in Mycroft’s arms as he looks down on his brother in wonder--and John watches them all, rapt and wistful, silent tears slipping slowly down his face. He had once thought that Sherlock must have come from a family that didn’t show him any affection, that ignored him, that tried to stifle his emotions, but in these videos, it’s clear they had doted on him as a child and that he had been happy, and John can’t help but wish that he could go back and stop whatever it was that had happened to turn that jubilant, carefree little boy into such a lonely, insecure man.

He supposes, though, that perhaps they would never have ended up here if Sherlock had been a happier adult. He might not have needed a friend badly enough to invite John to move in with him. He might not have become so attached to John’s presence in his life. Sure, he also might not have pitched himself off a roof or shot a man in cold blood either, but that pain is all part of what ultimately brought them here, and John wouldn’t change that for anything. Maybe they wouldn’t even have met if Sherlock hadn’t lost so much of his youthful cheer. Maybe instead of wishing he could change the past, John thinks, he should focus on making a better future, on trying to make the rest of Sherlock’s life as happy as the start.

He rubs the last of the tears from his eyes and opens the final video. It’s of Sherlock alone in what appears to be a dance studio, which catches John off-guard; he hadn’t known that Sherlock danced. Obviously he knows how to waltz, but this doesn’t look like Sherlock is about to do that kind of dancing.

The boy on the screen, garbed in all black save for the soft pink ballet slippers on his feet, sits on the floor and stretches, bending until his forehead touches his shins in a display of admirable flexibility. He goes through a few more stretches before standing and falling completely still, his feet together, toes apart, one arm out to his side, the other arched delicately above his head. After a few breaths, someone off-screen starts a familiar piece of music, and Sherlock springs to life. He bounds his way across the screen, spinning, kicking, jumping, as he moves all around the floor. John doesn’t know much about ballet, but he does knows that what he’s watching is obviously very good. However, it isn’t the technical skill Sherlock so clearly possesses or even the beauty of the dance that John is focused on; it’s the look on Sherlock’s face. In so many of the other videos, John had seen him happy, but this one--this is Sherlock in love. He  _loves_  dancing. It’s so clear that John thinks it would be obvious to even someone who doesn’t know Sherlock at all. How could he not have known this?

“I was auditioning for a part in the Nutcracker,” comes a voice from behind John’s chair, startling him. He’d been so intent on the video that he hadn’t even heard Sherlock come home. “There was a local theatre doing a production for the holidays, and I decided to try out. I was the youngest person to audition.”

“How old were you?” John asks as the dance comes to an end, the Sherlock on screen freezing in his final pose, feet together, one hand down at his side, the other over his heart, his head down with floppy curls falling across his brow.

“Ten.”

“And how old were the others you were up against?” John asks, tilting his head back to look at Sherlock hovering above him. He bends down and John stretches up until their lips meet in greeting, quick but soft.

“Thirteen and up,” he answers with a smirk, pulling away to walk around John’s chair.

“Did you get the part?”

His smirk grows into a wry smile. “Of course.”

John laughs because, yes, of course he did. Sherlock never does anything by half-measures, one of the things that John loves about him. There are so many things he loves about this man, and yet, he realizes, there are so many more things to love that he hasn’t even uncovered yet. He reaches out a hand and lets Sherlock pull him to his feet and straight into his arms. “I didn’t know you were a dancer,” John says into Sherlock’s chest as he slides his arms around Sherlock’s waist and pulls them tight together, breathing in the clean-laundry, faint-chemical, home-is-where-you-are scent of him. He can feel the rumble of quiet laughter in Sherlock’s chest where it’s pressed against his cheek.

“Well I would think it would be obvious, as I taught you how to dance, John.”

“Not like that, you git.” He pulls back far enough to pretend to give Sherlock an irritated stare, but he can’t keep the grin from his face. Sherlock kisses him again, slow and warm, their lips curling into soft smiles against each other.

When they part, John works up the courage to give voice to the question that’s been nagging him. “What made you stop?” he asks, referring to the dancing, but really meaning all of it, all the easy joy and ebullient laughter of Sherlock’s childhood.

Sherlock shrugs, his mouth quirking into the smallest of frowns. “Life.”

There are stories there, John knows, hidden behind that frown, buried under the simplicity of that response, but maybe now isn’t the time for them. Someday maybe Sherlock will tell him, and he can add those bits to the ever-growing list of things he loves about Sherlock. But for now he lets it drop. “Dance with me,” he says instead, and Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him. “What? You clearly love dancing, so dance with me.”

“Yes, but you don’t love dancing.”

“True. But I love you,” John replies, pressing up on his toes to swipe another kiss across Sherlock’s lips. “And I find that I’m quite partial to doing things that make you happy.”

With another kiss and a shy smile that grows and grows into something radiant, Sherlock pulls John into proper position and twirls him around the sitting room. They run into the furniture, and John steps on Sherlock’s toes, and they make themselves dizzy with all the spinning, but they also laugh and laugh and laugh, and John thinks that maybe that happy little boy isn’t so far from the surface after all.


	8. Day 8 - Baking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is more like Christmas-adjacent. It takes place during the Christmas season but doesn't really have anything specifically to do with Christmas. There's just only so much Christmas cheer that I can manage at the moment apparently. Lol.

Sherlock has screwed up.

Which is why he finds himself wandering aimlessly through streets crowded with last-minute Christmas shoppers, wrapped up warm against a chill he can’t seem to shake, a chill that has nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with his own stupidity running through his veins like ice water.

He shouldn’t have yelled at John. He shouldn’t have pushed. But he hadn’t been able to sit there in silence anymore. And now he’s screwed everything up. As usual.

John’s only been home for three weeks. He’d shown up at Sherlock’s door with a bag of clothes and an overstuffed diaper bag in one arm and Sophia in the other, and Sherlock had let him in without a single question. Why would he question it? John coming home was everything he’d wanted, everything he had expected, though it had taken far longer than he thought for John to give in to the inevitable. The next day he’d had Mycroft send some of his people round to John’s house to collect more of his things and deliver them to Baker Street, and the two of them--three now actually--had simply gone on living as if nothing had changed.

Except that everything had.

Wife gone, daughter to care for, the normal life he’d tried so desperately to build fallen irreparably apart--John has suffered through a year that has been unkind to him, changing him in ways Sherlock isn’t sure he can measure. The man who sits in their flat right now, likely trying to rock his daughter back to sleep after Sherlock’s harsh words had woken her, is not the same man he knew last year at this time. The John that Sherlock had known smiled easily and laughed in inappropriate situations. He’d been free with his praise and more patient with Sherlock’s faults than Sherlock ever deserved. And even in the wake of Mary’s betrayal, he’d been determined and resilient and brave. But this John’s face only ever shows the darkest shadow of a smile. This John never laughs, never praises, never fusses or frets over whether Sherlock has eaten or slept or run off without a note. He’s unmoored and hesitant and reserved, not just with Sherlock but with everyone. This John is a stranger. A stranger who still manages to take up all the space in the room, all the space in Sherlock’s head, with his grimaces and his listlessness and his silence.

The silence is what bothers Sherlock the most. John was never particularly loquacious before, but this silence is different somehow. It’s a silence that fills up all the empty spaces in the flat until it echoes through every room, buzzing loud in Sherlock’s ears. John talks to Sophia. He talks to Sherlock. He talks to Mrs Hudson. He watches telly and does the washing up and orders takeaway. He carries out the motions of a normal life, but all around it is quiet quiet quiet, until the few sounds he does make are cocooned in a silence so thick Sherlock feels like he’s drowning in it.

This afternoon he had had enough. He had wanted to snap John out of this despondency he’s fallen into, to shake him and remind him how to enjoy his life. Remind him that he actually has a life to enjoy. Remind him that he isn’t alone.

**********

“We’re going to Barts,” Sherlock says, in a tone intended to brook no argument, as he slips his arms into his coat.

John’s eyebrows raise in mild surprise. “Why?”

“Case.” There is no case, of course, but John doesn’t need to know that. What John needs is to get out of the flat, out of his chair, out of his own head.

John sighs and shakes his head. “No.”

“But I need your help,” Sherlock pleads.

“In case you’ve failed to notice, I have a child, Sherlock. I can’t just abandon her here to go run around with you.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. Does John really think that Sherlock is suggesting leaving her home on her own? “Of course not. I’m not an idiot, John. Mrs Hudson can watch her.”

“I’m not pawning my daughter off on our landlady!”

“Why not?” John just raises his eyebrows as if to say _are you kidding?_ “Then bring her with us.”

“I’m not bringing her to Barts either! God knows what kind of things you might expose her to there.”

Sherlock fixes John with a piercing stare. “Is that what you really think?”

“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time that you’d done something careless.”

“You honestly think that I would do something to harm her?” Sherlock asks, indignant.

John seems to deflate a little at that, though the fight doesn’t leave him entirely. He looks away and rubs his temple to soothe the headache that Sherlock can see is forming there. “Not intentionally.”

The two words feel like a slap. “How can you think that?” Does John honestly not know the lengths Sherlock would go to for them? Does he honestly think that Sherlock would ever do anything that could put either of them in harm’s way? Yes, in the past he hasn’t always been as careful with John as he should have been, but things have changed. _He_ has changed, only apparently John is too blind to see it. “I would do anything, _anything_ to protect the both of you,” Sherlock says, his voice rising. “That’s what I’m trying to do. I’m trying to help! Come to Barts. You need to stop sitting around feeling sorry for yourself. It doesn’t suit you, and it isn’t doing any of us any good.”

“Oh, and you always know what’s best for us, of course?” John asks, shaking his head in disbelief.

Beyond frustrated, Sherlock lets his voice raise to a shout. “In this case, yes. So let me help you!” They glare at each other for a moment, and Sherlock thinks it looks like just maybe John might acquiesce. But then Sophia begins crying upstairs, and John is standing and pushing past him.

Sherlock steps through the door and watches him go, already regretting yelling at him, regretting waking Sophia, ready to apologize when John comes back down and to try to start this conversation over. Halfway up the steps, John turns back and says quietly, “We don’t need your help.”

Sherlock is down the stairs and out the door before John has a chance to see the first tear fall.

**********

Sherlock walks back to the flat carefully considering how to word his apology. He knows that in his desperation to help John he had approached it all the wrong way, forgotten everything he’s ever learned about how to handle John, pushed him into lashing out. After hours strolling the city lost in thought, he is 74.3% certain that John didn’t mean what he said--why would he have come back to Baker Street in the first place if he hadn’t needed Sherlock’s help in some way? Maybe he just needs more time or more space or more reassurances that everything will be fine. Whatever it is that he needs, Sherlock will give it to him. But first he has to apologize.

He climbs the stairs quietly, mindful not to make any noises that might wake Sophia if she is sleeping again. The sitting room door is open, and he walks through and rounds the corner to find John with a spoon in one hand and Sophia asleep in the other, as he awkwardly attempts to stir a pot full of what smells like pasta sauce with hints of garlic, onion, and basil. His hair is sticking up where he’s been running his hands through it. His shirt is wrinkled. There’s a spot of pasta sauce on his neck somehow. He looks a bit of a mess, but Sherlock’s heart swells at the sight of him, at the very thought of John here in his life again, in their home, with his daughter on his hip as he cooks them dinner.

“Don’t just stand there,” John says, throwing a glance over his shoulder. “Come try this sauce and tell me if it tastes okay.”

Sherlock crosses over to where John is now holding out the spoon to him and takes a small taste. “Pinch of sugar maybe?” and John nods in agreement, already turning to reach for the sugar bowl.

“John, I-”

“It’s fine, Sherlock,” he says, dropping a healthy pinch of sugar into the pot and giving it another awkward stir.

“No. Please let me apologize.” He’d worked out the words on his way home, and he wants to get it out.

John reduces the heat on the pot and sets down the spoon before turning to face Sherlock, which Sherlock takes as his sign to go on.

“I’m sorry,” he says plainly. “I shouldn’t have presumed to tell you how to live your life. I was frustrated. You just seem so… unhappy all the time. And I want you to be happy, John. That’s all I want. That’s all I ever want.” He takes a deep breath to help stop himself from revealing too much. “I know I went about it the wrong way, but I want to help you, in whatever way you want it. If you want me to just let you sit in silence, I will. If you want someone to talk to, I’ll listen. If you want to go for a walk in the park, I’ll walk with you. Whatever you want, whatever you need from me, I’ll give you. Just tell me what you need. Please.”

John looks at him silence for several long seconds where Sherlock’s heart beats frantically against his chest. Eventually he says, “Right now I could really use an extra hand with dinner.”

Sherlock lets out the breath he’s been holding. “I think I can manage that.”

“And for the record,” John adds quietly, “I’m sorry, too. I didn’t mean what I said before.”

“I know.” Sherlock gives him a tentative smile, which John returns, and then he lets John direct him wherever his help is needed. They move around each other with the easy familiarity they’ve never quite lost in all their time apart, working together to mix the ziti with the sauce, get it into the pan, top it with cheese, and put it in to bake. John puts Sophia to bed, and they sit down to dinner together. John still seems mostly lost in his head. Sherlock still wishes he could do more to help him. And it’s still far too quiet, but, Sherlock thinks, the silence is a little less loud than it was before. For now, that’s enough.


	9. Day 9 - Making a Christmas List

Sherlock stares at the page in front of him. The clean, cool white of the paper. The thin, crisp blue lines. The shallow indentations that echo the writing on the previous page. The tiny splotch of ink where it had bled through from his notes on yesterday’s case. The words  _Christmas list_  scrawled in the spidery, black strokes of his own hand.

John has requested a list, so Sherlock is determined to give him one. What he’s going to put on that list, however, is a mystery he’s not sure even he can solve. When John had first asked what he wanted for Christmas, Sherlock had merely shrugged because the lie was preferable to the truth. He knows exactly what he wants, but he also knows that he can’t have it. And now somehow he is expected to come up with not just one gift idea but a multitude of them, an entire army of lies, a giant swarm of little half-truths and kind-ofs and not-quites that buzz around the edges of the things he really wants.

Which are:

_John’s hand in his, their palms warm against each other, their fingers twined together until they can’t tell whose are whose, as they run through the streets of London chasing murderers and thieves, chasing terror and thrills, chasing adventure, chasing fun, chasing life._

_John’s scent permanently woven into the very fabric of their flat, soaked into the wallpaper and the sofa and the towels and sheets, seeped into every soft surface until John’s presence in their home is as indelible as ink so that ages and ages hence, residents of this flat will know that John Watson was once a part of Sherlock Holmes’ life._

_John’s lips, against his own as they kiss each other breathless, along his jaw right after he shaves, down his neck when their adrenaline is high. Telling him he’s clever at a crime scene, crying out in pleasure in his bed, whispering sweet words in the darkness. John’s strong arms wrapped around him as they sleep. John’s hair tickling his nose when he wakes in the morning. John’s feet stepping on his toes as they dance in the sitting room. John’s knees astride his hips. John’s eyes only on him. John’s chest. John’s belly. John’s thighs and back and ears and throat._

_John’s smiles. His laughter. His joy. His sorrow. His anger. His fear. His respect. His trust. His friendship. His love._

_John._

Sherlock looks down, surprised to find that he’s actually written this list out. It’s there on paper for the world to see, black swirls of ink revealing the innermost desire of Sherlock’s heart, unveiling the carefully-kept secret that he really does have one after all. He puts down his pen and scrubs his hands through his hair in frustration. John is all he wants, and no amount of new books or socks or scarves or test tubes will ever make up for the fact that Sherlock can’t have him, can’t even ask.

So he tears out the page and crumples it up, a fresh page staring back at him as he tries to come up with something else. John wants a list, so Sherlock is going to give him one. Even if he can’t have John for himself, he can at least do things that make John happy. Picking up the pen again, he touches it to the page, unsure of what to write, but determined to make his hand move until it spells out something acceptable. Thinking and thinking and thinking, he eventually manages to bend his fingers to his will, making a short list of things he can pretend to enjoy, things he’ll like not even half as much as what he really wants but that will make John happy to give him.

It will have to do.

His second list complete, he crosses the room and throws the first one in the bin. He never sees where it lands, never knows that it comes to rest atop another ball of crinkled paper, a crumpled page covered in John’s untidy scrawl, a discarded list of his own that simply says:

_You_


	10. Day 10 - Scrooge

Sent     21:39  
Merry Christmas.

**Received     21:42  
Sorry, yuo’ve got the wrong number.**

Sent     21:42  
I’m not so sure about that. Who are you?

 **Received     21:45**  
 **No on e. not whoever youre trying to**  
 **rreach**.

Sent     21:46  
I’m sure you must be someone. And how do  
you know you’re not the one I’m looking for?

**Received     21:51  
ebcause no one is loooking for me**

Sent     21:52  
I wouldn’t be so certain of that.

**Received     21:55  
is thi s mycroft**

Sent     21:56  
What the hell kind of a name is Mycroft?

**Received     21:59  
a stupido ne**

Sent     21:59  
On that we are agreed.

Sent     21:59  
Are you drunk?

**Received     22:01  
v ery**

Sent     22:03  
How much have you had?

**Received     22:08**   
**sod offf.i dont’ need your judggement i**   
**don’t even kno who you are**

Sent     22:09  
Is there anyone there to keep an eye on  
you?

**Received     22:15  
no**

**Received     22:16  
im alone**

**Received     22:16  
very vrry a lone**

Sent     22:18  
You’re alone on Christmas? Why?

**Received     22:22  
becase i’m a scrooge**

Sent     22:23  
That seems unlikely.

**Received     22:26  
its true**

**Received     22:29**   
**ts fine t hough. dont’ wantto be aruond**   
**anynoe anyway**

Sent     22:33  
Why not? Surely you must have friends or  
family who would like to spend the holidays  
with you--or are they all just that unbearable?

Sent     22:34  
I have a brother who is absolutely dreadful.

**Received     22:38**   
**mysister’s in rehab a nd i dont relly have**   
**any freinds anymore**

**Received     22:44**   
**Teh onl y person i want to spend it with**   
**is gone,**

Sent     22:46  
I’m sorry. That must be difficult.

Sent     22:47  
Would it help to talk about it, this friend or  
whoever it is?

**Received     22:49  
no.**

**Received     22:52  
i dont kmow.**

Sent     22:54  
You don’t have to. I don’t want to make your  
Christmas worse.

**Received     22:56  
Not p osssible.**

**Received     22:59  
he was mor than myfriend.**

**Received     23:01  
I don’t know waht he was.**

Sent     23:04  
I think I understand what you mean. I know  
someone like that, too.

Sent     23:04  
Tell me about him?

**Received     23:05**   
**He was brillliant.**

**Received     23:08**   
**He cuold read your whole life story ina**   
**single look.**

**Received     23:12**   
**He wasn’t polite and h e expectd a lot**   
**from you, but he also cared a lot,**   
**somewhre deep down.**

**Received     23:14**   
**He played the violin,**

**Received     23:15**   
**I mis s that a lot.**

**Received     23:17**   
**I even miss the way he wouldscreech on**   
**the strings when he was annoyed.**

**Received     23:21**   
**I miss his voice and his ridiculosu**   
**cheekbones and his sense of humour**   
**and all the rest.**

**Received     23:23**   
**He was the best man Ive ever known. I**   
**should have toldh im**

Sent     23:28  
Told him what?

**Received     23:37**   
**I shuoldn’t have gone on like taht. I’m**   
**sorry.**

**Received     23:38  
I should go.**

Sent     23:39  
No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pried. Don’t  
go.

**Received     23:44**   
**I don’t even know you. You could be**   
**some kind of a psychopath or**   
**sometihng.**

Sent     23:46  
I’ve been called worse. But I’m not a  
psychopath, if that makes you feel any better.

**Received     23:49  
A litttle I guess. But I should stil go.**

Sent     23:50  
If you must.

Sent     23:50  
You never did tell me who you are though.

**Received     23:52  
John**

**Received     23:53  
You?**

Sent     23:53  
William.

**Received     23:55  
Well, Merry Christmas then , William.**

Sent     23:55  
Merry Christmas, John.

Sent     23:56  
Wherever your more-than-a-friend is, I’m  
sure he misses you as much as you miss  
him.

_Unsent     23:56  
And he loves you, too._


	11. Day 11 - Mulled Wine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut...

When he’d heard the words _Harry_ and _Christmas party_ and _home_ all in the same sentence, John had expected to spend his evening wishing he were anywhere else. Being back in his childhood home, a place full of more dark memories than light ones, with his sister and her friends is far from what he considers an ideal evening, but she had pleaded with him to come and allowed him to bring Sherlock along, too, and so here he is, having a far more pleasant time than he’d expected. He leans against the wall between the kitchen and the sitting room, his eyes flitting about the room--Harry and a couple of her friends debating about the Prime Minister, a couple in the corner dancing by themselves and too wrapped up in each other to pay attention to anyone else, a small cluster of Harry’s friends playing poker on the coffee table--before settling on the sight of a certain dark-haired detective in rapt conversation with Harry’s friend, George. Sherlock’s eyes are bright, and his lips are moving fast. John can’t hear what he’s saying, but whatever it is, Sherlock is clearly in his element. Probably talking about corpses, John figures, and he has to laugh a little at the fact that such a thing long ago stopped seeming like an oddity.

He could honestly stand here all night, sipping slowly from his cup of mulled wine and letting the warmth of it curl through him, watching the way Sherlock’s entire face lights up when he really hits his stride in whatever it is he’s saying. When Sherlock nods vigorously, a loose curl falls across his forehead, and he brushes it back, his hands ruffling absently through his hair and leaving it a bigger mess than it was before. He gestures wildly as he talks, and John gets lost in the flex of tight tendons in his wrists, the stretch of lean forearms exposed by rolled up sleeves, the curl of long, thin, deft violinist fingers. Sherlock is gorgeous like this, animated, alive, all wrapped up in warmth, the sitting room lights painting him in swaths of amber, his excitement flushing rose in his cheeks, the mulled wine staining his lips crimson, the fairy lights strung along the wall glinting gold in his hair. John aches with how much he wants this man.

Sherlock looks up from his conversation and catches John’s eye. There had been a time when John would have been embarrassed to be caught out looking at him like this, but they’ve been growing closer and closer again over the last several months, teetering on the edge of something more, and John has allowed himself to be a little more open with his affections, encouraged by Sherlock responding in kind. It’s gone on enough now that it almost feels as if they’re playing a game with one another, waiting to see who will break and make the first move. John knows how much Sherlock loves games, so he’s drawn it out--the longing looks, the lingering touches, the flirty comments filled with innuendo--but something is going to give very soon. Maybe even tonight.

He holds Sherlock’s gaze, not bothering to hide his affection, and Sherlock responds by giving him a small, soft smile. Everything else falls away, and the moment spools out between them. It’s only them, only this. There’s the warmth in Sherlock’s eyes that he’s grown used to seeing lately, a fondness he used to keep buried deep, along with a spark of heat as well. His own lips curl into a bigger smile at the thought, and he watches as Sherlock excuses himself from his conversation without looking away and crosses the room to where John still leans against the wall.

He crowds close, standing almost toe to toe with John and ducks his head low under the pretense of being heard, but John knows it’s just an excuse. “You look like you’re having a nice time.”

“Oh, you know, just enjoying the sights,” John responds with a grin. “The tree. The fairy lights,” he says, looking past Sherlock into the sitting room. “The presents. The fire…” He trails off and lets his eyes come back to Sherlock, tracking down his body and up again, making sure the _you_ on the end of that statement is more than understood. Sherlock swallows thickly, and John watches the way his adam’s apple bobs in his throat, longing to bend forward and feel the movement against his lips, against his tongue. His desire must show on his face because when his eyes meet Sherlock’s again, he smirks knowingly and leans farther forward, one hand coming up to brace against the wall next to John’s head. This is it, John thinks. Sherlock is going to kiss him. Finally. His lips part and his breath hitches as Sherlock leans closer, mischief dancing in his eyes.

At the last moment Sherlock shifts just slightly so that he can bend to John’s ear instead, and John tries not to squirm in frustration. Then Sherlock’s breath blows warm against his ear, and he has to suppress a different kind of squirming. “Show me the rest of the sights?” he whispers.

John tilts his head, uncertain what exactly that means, though certain that he’ll show Sherlock whatever it is he wants to see. Sherlock pulls back enough that John can see his face. His eyes flick to the hallway leading to the rest of the house, and John understands. “Yes.” Sherlock pushes away from the wall, and John feels like he can breathe again without the weight of Sherlock’s eyes on him. He sucks in a deep breath and blows it out slowly as he turns for the hallway, feeling Sherlock trailing along in his wake.

He decides to follow through with the charade of giving Sherlock a tour of the house to help keep his mind off of where this is going, to help keep him calm. “That’s Harry’s room,” he says, pointing to the first doorway they pass and working to keep a tremor out of his voice. Every step carries them closer to the precipice, and John tries not to let his feet falter. “That was my parents’ room, but Harry’s turned it in to an office now.”

They reach the room at the end of the hall, and John stops just outside the doorway, turning back to Sherlock to see the mischievous glint hasn’t left his eyes. He licks his lips and watches Sherlock’s eyes dart down to his mouth and back, letting the quiet tension build between them again, swaying ever so slightly forward and feeling Sherlock do the same. He lets his gaze fall to Sherlock’s mouth, to that ridiculously perfect cupid’s bow of an upper lip, to his plush, full lower lip just begging to be sucked on and nipped at, to the slight part between them inviting John’s tongue to wriggle inside and taste him. John’s body sings at the mere thought of it, and he can practically feel the waves of desire coming off of Sherlock, too.

“And this was my room,” he whispers with a smirk, before turning and walking confidently through the doorway, leaving Sherlock wanting.

He doesn’t turn around when he hears the snap of the door closing behind him, when he feels Sherlock’s footsteps coming closer, when he senses Sherlock’s body just behind him, only a hair’s breadth of space between them.

“So,” Sherlock says, his breath ruffling John’s hair. “Did you spend a lot of time in here when you were younger?”

John nods. “If I was home, I was always locked away in here.”

He can feel Sherlock shift slightly behind him, inching closer, and then his breath gusts just behind John’s left ear. John’s eyes snap closed at the sensation, as Sherlock’s mouth hovers just above his skin, not touching, just teasing him with warm puffs of air, ghosts of the kisses he wishes Sherlock would press against him. “And what did you do with all your time in here?” His mouth moves lower, and John tilts his head away, exposing more of his neck to Sherlock’s mouth which infuriatingly moves no closer to his skin.

With Sherlock teasing him, John struggles to think of an answer to the question. “Read,” he says eventually. “Do schoolwork.” Sherlock’s mouth moves lower still, down to where the edge of John’s jumper nestles against the base of his neck. “Wank.”

Sherlock’s sharp intake of breath brings a smile to his face, but it’s quickly followed by his own small gasp when the tip of Sherlock’s nose brushes against his skin. Sherlock trails it up his neck and back down again, and John struggles to hold still, his body vibrating from even this slight contact. His nose traces to the back of John’s neck, skirting along just above his collar. “And what did you think about,” Sherlock asks, the words rumbling dark and low from his throat, “while you pulled yourself off?”

John gasps audibly this time, his head falling forward, his chest heaving slightly. This is new territory for them. All their words have stopped at innuendo before now, and Sherlock saying something so blatantly sexual, asking John to tell him things he’s fantasized about, sends electricity crackling down John’s spine. “Kissing,” he says for a start, and Sherlock makes a sound of encouragement as his nose circles up the nape of John’s neck, nuzzling against the short hairs there. “Getting my hands up Tiffany MacGregor’s shirt.” Sherlock noses back down again. “Or down her pants.” John clenches his fists in his efforts to remain still, as Sherlock keeps moving, now over to the right side of his neck. “Or down Ian Stephenson’s pants.” Sherlock’s breath hitches again, the barest break in the steady in and out, John leaning his head to the left now to stretch his neck against Sherlock’s movements. “Imagining what it would feel like with my cock in someone’s mouth.” Sherlock lets out the tiniest moan, so soft that John might not have heard it were it not for Sherlock’s mouth now so close to his ear. “What it would feel like with someone else’s cock in mine.”

The sharp gasp pulls a rush of cool air against John’s skin, sending goose pimples rippling down his neck. “John,” Sherlock breathes, and he sounds utterly wrecked without John having even touched him. But John understands because he feels nearly as far gone, his cock twitching as it strains against his trousers.

John spins to face him, looking up at Sherlock’s face for the first time since they entered the room, his eyelids heavy with desire, his pupils dark and wide in the near-darkness, the deep, delicious space between his lips silently pleading to be explored.

Not quite yet, John thinks, wanting to win this game they’ve played for the past few months, wanting to make Sherlock be the one to break first. He’s so close, and John knows just how to push him over the edge. He locks his eyes on Sherlock’s and whispers, “Do you want to know what I think about now?” and Sherlock’s eyes widen in response. He presses up to Sherlock’s ear, letting his breath tease against overheated skin the same as Sherlock had done to him. “I think about you.”

Sherlock’s entire body quivers then. “I think about your hands on me. Trailing over my chest. Down my stomach. Between my thighs.” He pulls back to look in Sherlock’s eyes again. “Wrapped around my cock.” Sherlock’s eyes fall closed and his nostrils flare as he visibly fights to keep control of himself. John waits for his eyes to open again before going on. “How your gorgeous mouth would look when you suck me.” The tremble in Sherlock’s body grows deeper, more constant, and John aches with his own need. Just a little more. “How it would feel to slip my fingers inside you. To stretch you open. To press just _there_ and see how you respond.”

Sherlock whines and sways forward, bending toward John’s mouth, but he catches himself and stops with the barest of space left between them, apparently not wanting to be the one to lose the game either. John opens his mouth and let his breath pant against Sherlock’s lips before he goes on, his eyes locked on Sherlock’s, wild and desperate. “Slick my cock and press inside you.” Sherlock’s eyes snap closed and his brow wrinkles, but to his credit, he doesn’t move an inch. “Sliding in so slow, letting you feel every inch of me stretching you.” His brow wrinkles even harder, those delightful crinkles appearing at the top of his nose. “Burying myself deep and then sliding out again. Fucking you slow and long until you can’t think anymore, until you’re desperate and begging.” Sherlock is openly panting now, his chest heaving hard and heavy with labored breaths, his face a mess of quivering need. “Feeling your perfect arse clench around me as I finally let you come.”

Sherlock chokes out a desperate, half-sob sound from his throat as his entire body tenses, moaning loud and long as he sways forward to meet John’s mouth, John’s brain too focused on the _yes, this, finally, more_ coursing through his entire body at the feeling of Sherlock’s lips against his own to really register that he’s just made Sherlock come in his pants. The kiss is a mess--Sherlock is essentially just panting into John’s mouth, his lips and tongue too lazy to make a coordinated response through the haze of his orgasm, but the relief of it, of them finally coming together after months, after years of waiting, makes it perfect anyway. Sherlock tastes like citrus and clove and dark red wine, like storms and symphonies and sex. And John licks it from him, rolls the taste along his tongue and lets it settle in his throat, absorbing it into the core of his being, this knowledge of what Sherlock Holmes tastes like, so that it can never ever leave him. Even when they part, when they go about their everyday tasks, when they’re at crime scenes or Tesco or just sitting quietly together on the sofa, part of him will always know how Sherlock tastes in this moment, this only first kiss they’ll ever have. There will be a lifetime of kisses, he thinks, but none of them will ever taste like this. Like the impossible and the inevitable. Like Friday nights. Like home.


	12. Day 12 - Ugly Christmas Jumpers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More smut...

“You lost the bet, so go put it on,” John says, pointing toward their bedroom.

Sherlock, predictably, pouts. “Ten whole minutes? You can’t be serious. This is stup-”

“I am serious,” John cuts him off. “You lost fair and square. This is what we agreed to. Now go,” he says sternly.

He follows John’s order, stomping and mumbling all the way to the bedroom, closing the door behind him with a crisp snap, and John shakes his head fondly. He doesn’t really care about the bet, but it’s always fun to rile Sherlock up, especially on the rare occasion that he’s wrong about something. Settling into the sofa, John waits for Sherlock’s inevitable return, knowing that he’ll take his time and delay as long as possible but eventually will come back as he’s supposed to. He flips through his email on his mobile as he waits and then browses a few local news sites as well. Finally, he hears the bedroom door open and Sherlock’s footsteps light across the kitchen floor along with a very faint jingling.

Sherlock stops just inside the kitchen and pokes his head into the sitting room. “This is truly awful,” he pouts, but there’s an amused gleam in his eye.

“I know,” John says with a smile. “But you lost, and this was the deal. So let’s see it.”

Sherlock lifts an imperious eyebrow and steps into the sitting room with his hands on his hips, and John’s face goes slack with surprise before he dissolves into raucous giggles, his entire body shaking with mirth. Sherlock is wearing the ugly jumper that Harry had sent him for Christmas (and John can admit that it really is quite ugly--it has a large Christmas tree on it with shiny bits and fuzzy baubles attached like ornaments--and that Harry had sent it to him just to be an arse). Sherlock had refused to even try it on after he opened it, not that John could really blame him for that.

But a week later now, when Sherlock had gotten bored enough with their current lack of cases, John had seized the opportunity to try to wrangle Sherlock into wearing it, just once. He had agreed to play a game of Scrabble with Sherlock, under the condition that if Sherlock lost, he’d wear the jumper for ten minutes, and if Sherlock won, he could do any experiment he wanted on it instead, including burning it in acid or setting it on fire (Sherlock had checked that those were allowable before agreeing to the bet). After a hard fought game, Sherlock lost by 30 points, and John delighted in his victory, looking forward to snapping a couple pictures of Sherlock in the jumper to use for blackmail if needed.

Now, however, he thinks that perhaps he should have made some further stipulations on their bet.

Like requiring Sherlock to also wear trousers.

He looks up again to find that Sherlock hasn’t moved an inch, that he’s still staring at John with one eyebrow quirked high and his hands on his hips, the jumper baggy over his lean frame, completely naked from the waist down. John tries to school his face and contain his laughter, but Sherlock reaches up and plucks at one of the bells attached to the fabric, sending it jingling, and John collapses sideways on the sofa, clutching his sides as he laughs and laughs and laughs.

“Get it out of your system now. Because I’m still going to destroy this thing in…” He lifts his wrist to look at his watch. “Eight minutes and twenty-two seconds,” he says, his tone awfully serious for a man wearing an ugly jumper and no pants, but the slight smirk on his face gives away his amusement.

John finally manages to calm himself, pulling back from shaking with laughter to merely grinning like an idiot. Sherlock looks utterly ridiculous, but John loves him like this--a little silly, a bit defiant, and very comfortable being himself. And half-naked. Half-naked (or more) is always welcome.

“Come here,” he says, sitting up and patting the sofa next to him. Sherlock crosses the room and sits, and John climbs into his lap and presses a smiling kiss to Sherlock’s lips. “Thank you,” he says and kisses Sherlock again, letting Sherlock’s tongue slip between his lips to taste his amusement. He traces his hands down the front of the jumper, his fingers playing over all the trimmings, ducking under the bottom edge and gliding back up the warm, smooth skin of Sherlock’s belly. When he captures Sherlock’s lower lip between his own, sucking and nipping gently, he can feel the twitch of interest from between Sherlock’s legs. With one last twirl of his tongue in Sherlock’s mouth, he pulls back and whispers, “Stay there.”

He slides to his knees, his hands grasping Sherlock’s hips to slide them forward as he nuzzles into the crease of Sherlock’s groin, nosing against the edge of the thatch of auburn curls there, feeling Sherlock’s soft cock stirring against his cheek. He drops open mouthed kisses down the length before pulling the entirety of it into his mouth. John loves this, sucking Sherlock while he’s still soft, working at him until he’s fully hard, taking his time with the entire process of taking Sherlock apart. He pulls back to the tip, slipping his tongue just inside the foreskin, delighting in the way Sherlock’s breath catches in his chest, and then sucking him down again, feeling Sherlock thicken and steel against his tongue.

Sherlock moans softly and slips his fingers into John’s hair, the nerves tingling as Sherlock rubs along his scalp. John swirls his tongue around the head, massages along the bottom, applies the lightest suction, until Sherlock is completely hard and beginning to pant above him. He slides off to lap in little kitten licks down the underside, curling his tongue against Sherlock’s bollocks, pulling them gently into his mouth as Sherlock swears, before slowly working his way up again to lick the bead of pre-come from his slit and suck him down once more.

When Sherlock’s hips begin to press up in tiny thrusts, the bells on the jumper tinkle softly, and John has to hold back a laugh, forcing himself to concentrate instead on increasing his speed and the pressure of his suction, wriggling his tongue along the underside of Sherlock’s shaft with every draw back. He pulls off, and Sherlock whines, but John presses a finger to Sherlock’s lips, which he pulls between his lips, sucking hard enough to send a jolt to John’s erection straining against his trousers. When his finger is thoroughly wet, John draws it from Sherlock’s mouth and slips it between his legs, sliding into his cleft to circle gently against his entrance as he stretches his lips around Sherlock’s cock again. Sherlock’s hips rock more insistently against John’s finger, and John looks up at Sherlock through his lashes as he presses his fingertip just barely inside, watching Sherlock’s head fall back against the sofa, a string of soft _fuck_ s and _John_ s and _oh_ s tumbling from his mouth. He lets his finger dip farther inside as he sucks Sherlock harder, and Sherlock’s quiet words become louder moans and harsh, panting breaths, and when John feels him thicken and become impossibly harder, he quickly pulls off to wrap a hand around him instead, pumping in short, tight strokes, and curls his finger against Sherlock’s prostate, and Sherlock comes hard, his cock spurting thick and wet across his belly and chest. John gentles him through the other side, and Sherlock melts bonelessly into the cushions with a satisfied sigh. John slips back onto the sofa next to him and kisses him softly as he comes down.

When he’s coherent again, Sherlock gazes hazily down at the jumper, narrowing his eyes at the wet streaks across the fabric. “I think this is ruined.”

John nods in agreement. “You’re welcome,” he says with a grin, and Sherlock’s lips quirk into a lazy smile.

“Does that mean I can take it off now?”

“Yeah, I suppose so.”

“Oh, good,” Sherlock says, lifting his wrist to look at his watch. “A minute and nineteen seconds early. I knew I’d get out of wearing it the full ten minutes.”

“You’re ridiculous,” John laughs and kisses him again. He wouldn’t have it any other way.


	13. Days 21 & 22 - Christmas Movies/Specials & Snowed In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You might be asking yourself _what happened to days 13-20?_ The answer is that those chapters comprised their own cohesive story, so I have decided to move them over into their own fic, [of midnight moments and mistletoe](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8704453/chapters/19957579).
> 
> Read on below for days 21 and 22...

The windows of the flat are frosted over by the snow falling thick and fast on Baker Street. The city beyond is still and quiet, everyone lured back into the comfort of their warm, dry homes, the entire world, it seems, pausing to hold its frozen breath, but the little world inside 221B spins on. A fire blazes hot and bright in the hearth to stave off the chill, and the evening’s plans for dinner at Angelo’s and a bit of adventure have--derailed by the snow--given way to a quiet night in, bundled up in thick, fuzzy blankets and the apricot glow of each other’s company.

John and Sophia huddle together and watch telly on one end of the sofa, the flickering images painting them in cool blues and greens and whites that mix with the golds and tangerines of the firelight to set them ablaze in technicolor swirls. John is nestled against the arm, his bare feet propped on the coffee table, Fee curled up against his side, her deep blue eyes so very like John’s peering out from between the soft blanket pulled up to her nose and the mess of golden tangles atop her head, while on the other end of the sofa, Sherlock takes advantage of the unexpected down time to catch up on reading articles in some of John’s recent medical journals, his back propped against the arm of the sofa and his feet pulled up under him, angled so that he can see John and Fee when he looks up between paragraphs, this tableau of his happy little family warming him in a way he once would never have thought possible.

It’s been five years since Fee came into their lives and four and a half since John first became his. Sherlock never could have anticipated any of this, that his life would change when John walked into Barts that day, that he would fall desperately in love with this remarkable and beautiful and unfailingly good man, that their shared love for this amazing little girl would be the thing that finally got them to admit their love for one another, that he of all people would end up with a husband and a daughter and almost more love than he can bear, rather than the solitary life he had always assumed and on occasion been told he would have. In moments like this, he still can’t help but wonder at exactly how he ended up here, certain that he must have stolen someone else’s life by mistake, that it isn’t possible that he’s found this much love and happiness, that he doesn’t deserve it even if it somehow really is his.

“Daddy” Fee says suddenly, her voice muffled through the blanket covering her mouth. “Why does Charlie Brown pick that tree? I would have picked one of the purple ones.”

John chuckles. “I know you would have,” he tells her. He’s quiet for a long time before he answers her question, staring unseeing at the fire as he thinks of what to say, his words coming out gentle and warm when he finally speaks. “I think Charlie Brown picked that tree because it’s unique. It’s not like all the other trees.” He smiles tenderly and turns to catch Sherlock’s eye, and Sherlock’s heart clenches at the love that he can see there, at the love he can hear running through John’s words like a current. “Other people might not see it that way--they might think it’s weird or not good enough, but Charlie knows better. He knows it’s special, beautiful even. And that the tree needs him, just as much as he needs it. So he takes it back home and tries to make it feel as special as it is, to make other people see that it’s special, too.”

The corners of Sherlock’s eyes prickle, and he tries to swallow down the thick ball of emotion in his throat. Even after all this time, the strength of John’s love still manages to surprise him. Perhaps, he thinks, even an entire lifetime of it wouldn’t be enough to get used to it. John lifts his arm from where it’s curled against Fee and rests it along the back of the sofa, and Sherlock threads his fingers together with John’s. The moment spools out, still and simple and sincere, coiling around Sherlock’s chest and binding him tight until he feels swaddled by its comfort and warmth.

“Do you think the tree was lonely?” Fee asks, looking up at John, whose hand tightens in Sherlock’s as he looks back at her, a complicated mix of emotions on his face.

Sherlock squeezes John’s hand and then untangles their fingers so that he can slide closer, scooting against Fee’s side and squeezing her between them. He ruffles a hand absently through her hair while sliding the other along the back of the sofa to the nape of John’s neck. “I think it was, Fee,” he says softly, drawing John’s gaze back to him and holding it meaningfully. “It was very lonely, but it didn’t even realize it, not until Charlie Brown came along.”

Sherlock thinks of all the nights he spent not knowing that the dark feeling sticking to his ribs and filling up his lungs, turbid and viscous and dank, was unbearable loneliness, only discovering how thick and deep it had become when John came along to siphon it all away and let the light in again. He gazes at John, looking back at him with quiet, steady affection, at Fee watching him in innocent wonder, and he knows that even if he had never imagined that this is where he’d end up, it is absolutely where he is meant to be. His face breaks into a smile, small but not lacking in genuine joy, and lets his love for this man, for his family, shine through every pore.

“But the tree isn’t lonely anymore.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr as [hudders-and-hiddles](http://hudders-and-hiddles.tumblr.com).


End file.
